


The Adventure Of The Vatican Cameos (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [78]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Theft, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 16:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10903299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The first case of Sherlock and John, rather than Holmes and Watson. There is cudd.... ahem, manly embracing - and did the Pope's man steal the precious cameos, or not?





	The Adventure Of The Vatican Cameos (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



Undoubtedly the best part of our new relationship was that we now shared a bed as and where possible. Even if we were just sleeping together and not actually 'sleeping together' – look, you know what I mean! - there was something wonderful in going to bed with the man I loved, and walking up to find that, during the night, we were invariably tangled together. He always seemed to either pull me around him like a sort of cloak, or wrap all his limbs around me like some demented octopus.

The only downside was that, inevitably, one of us had to leave for our own room before anyone came in. I was, I suppose, fortunate in that I have always been an early riser, and rarely needed the alarm clock that I carried to wake me in time, but I resented having to 'keep up appearances'. But we were in foreign countries at the time, and who knew what the reaction might be if anyone came to suspect? Come to that, what would happen when we got back to England?

Oh well. I would cross that bridge when we came to it. I had the man I loved as my 'husband' in all but name, and I was gloriously happy with my life right now.

I could not know then that I was less than three years away from losing that man, and all that happiness.

+~+~+

It was only a short train journey from Verona to Padua, where Sherlock had been asked to assist his brother Gaylord, who had been dispatched here on some diplomatic matter or other. I knew that Sherlock rarely spoke to his immediate elder brother, and that their mother had had Words with him over his treatment of Sherlock on more than one occasion. Gaylord may have had a reputation as the family joker, but few could out-plan my friend when he got going; I had been told by Sherlock to not mention feathers and/or strong glue at any time during our encounter. I would probably remember that prohibition.

Feathers and strong glue, feathers and strong glue, feathers and......

Sherlock looked sharply at me. That had not changed, more was the pity!

“Bacchus thinks you may have better luck than me in finding some lost treasures”, Gaylord explained as we sat down in his room at his hotel. He had clearly noticed the fact that we were sat close together opposite him, but a sharp look from Sherlock silenced any smart remarks he might have felt compelled to make. “It’s another tricky situations involving these Eye-ties, like that vixen Mrs. Ricoletti.”

I remembered that particular murderous female, now serving a deserved life-sentence in this, her home country. 

“All right, some history”, Gaylord said, producing a lollipop from heaven only knew where. “Back in ‘Seventy, the Eye-ties overran the Papal States, and poor Pope Pius IX was effectively held prisoner in Rome. Ever since then, the spaghetti crew have been quietly and efficiently stripping him of all his lands all over the peninsula. A few weeks ago they seized a small private country house just outside of the town here, and that was where the fun started.”

“I doubt any case that requires two Holmeses to attend to it can be described as ‘fun’”, Sherlock said stiffly. Gaylord glared at him before continuing.

“Amongst the items in the house were the 'Magnificent Seven', also known as 'the Rainbow Cameos'”, the elder Holmes continued, sucking at his lollipop. “They were - are - seven seventeenth-century engravings of famous popes across the ages. What makes them unusual is that there is one in each of the seven colours of the rainbow; as you know, differently-coloured cameos are very rare. They were given to the then-pope in sixteen something or other by some Spanish king. The details are not important.”

“I disagree with you there”, Sherlock said quietly. “The background may hold a clue to their disappearance. I take it that they are the items that have been stolen?”

“The house was taken possession of a week ago, at the end of last month”, his brother said. “The twenty-seventh. The cameos were definitely there on the twenty-sixth, because the people in charge of the house had three guests round for dinner that evening, and they were shown them, as was usual with all visitors to the place. So they disappeared sometime overnight. Now the Eye-ties are blaming papal agents for stealing their treasures, whilst the Pope is claiming that his jailers actually have them, and just want to make trouble.”

“Could the guests have been shown a fake copy or something?” I suggested.

Gaylord scoffed and looked set to make some sharp retort, but Sherlock got there first.

“Watson is quite correct in his suggestion”, he said icily. “Answer the question, Gaylord.”

I did not stick my tongue out at him, much as I wanted to. But it was close.

“One of the visitors that night was an antiques expert”, he said stiffly, “so no. And he was working for the Italian government, so it would hardly be in his interests to lie.”

“Unless he was in on it”, Sherlock smiled. 

“Why would the Italians claim that papal agents did it?” I wondered.

Gaylord Holmes opened his mouth to clearly say something else rude, but caught his brother’s warning glare just in time. He shut up and instead pulled out another lollipop.

“Not having the blessing of the leader of the world’s Catholics is irritating, even amongst the irreligious Italian leadership”, Sherlock explained to me. “They might hope to force concessions in return for their ‘finding’ the lost treasures. But you do not think that the Italians have them, Gaylord?”

“No, I do not”, his brother said. “The chap in charge of getting hold of them when the house was to be seized was one Marcus Latimer – his mother was Italian and his father English – and he is possibly up for promotion soon, so this farrago is a disaster for him.”

“So that brings us to the people present in the home at the time the cameos disappeared”, Sherlock said. “Dramatis personae?”

“Only four people”, Gaylord said. When we both looked surprised at that, he explained. “It is but a small house set some way apart from the town, where one of the saints did a miracle in creating a local well. They didn’t have that many servants beforehand, but now it’s just an elderly couple and their nephew, who was visiting at the time of the raid.”

“Timely”, I muttered. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at my cynicism, but did not remark on it.

“The elderly couple were the Columbos, Nico and Benedicta”, Gaylord said. “Not beyond reproach, but pretty nearly; they’ve spent almost all their married lives there, taking possession when the last couple wanted to retire over thirty years ago. Their nephew, Mr. Luigi Gallo, is rather a different matter. In some financial troubles, I understand, and selling something like the cameos would set him up for life, never mind just clearing his debts. He has been involved in a couple of instances of sharp financial practice, but nothing openly illegal. As yet, anyway. And....”

He stopped dramatically. I pictured a mental drum-roll.

“The empty cameo case was found under his bed!”

“A thoroughly stupid hiding-place, in which the real thief would never secrete something so incriminating”, Sherlock said acidly. “The fourth person was an Italian government agent, was he not?”

His brother nearly choked on his lollipop.

“Damnation, Sher!” he growled. “How on earth did you know that?”

Sherlock fixed him with an icy glare. I was sure that the temperature in the room fell by several degrees. I wondered if my medical services might be about to be called on.

All right. 'I wondered' as in 'I hoped'.

“Not ‘Sher’, got it”, Gaylord muttered, edging his chair slightly away from his brother's azure stare. “Sorry. The fourth man was a priest, Father Calocerus. He was named for the saint who performed the miracle of the well, and was a local man. He lived in a hermit cell on the grounds, and spent most of his time praying in the small chapel there.”

“You keep saying ‘was’”, I observed. “Why?”

“The man was indeed an Italian government agent, posted to spy on the place prior to the raid”, Gaylord explained. “I am rather afraid he may have taken the cameos for himself; we know that he took a train back to Rome just hours before the raid.”

“I take it that he did not reach Rome?” Sherlock ventured.

“He barely made it out of the station”, Gaylord said glumly. “The ticket collector found him less than five minutes after the train had departed, stripped bare and with all his clothes next to him. And when questioned, he remembered that the man had been carrying a small box when he had boarded the train. Of course that had vanished too.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“How did they identify the body?” I wondered.

“I thought that too”, Gaylord admitted, looking a little annoyed that I had spotted something, “but he had had a distinctive ring that was engraved with his patron saint, and it was later identified by the old couple. It was in his pocket.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“I rather think that we need to talk with this Mr. Latimer”, he said.

“I shall set up a meeting with him”, Gaylord said. “Do you think you can help?”

“The solution seems rather obvious”, Sherlock yawned. “I expect a solution very shortly, though I doubt that you will like it very much.”

His brother looked at him expectantly.

“And if you had not called me ‘Sher’ earlier”, Sherlock said bluntly, “I might have been prepared to tell you today. But as it is, you can wait!”

I tried to bite back a snigger, but I failed dismally. And I really did not care that I failed.

+~+~+

Mr. Latimer, whom we met the following morning, was a nervous fellow in his early forties. He was clearly fond of Italian food and wore those same coloured-lens glasses that I had so recently seen on the murderous valet Mr. Horton back in Baden-Baden. Sherlock got straight down to business.

“I have some questions for you, Mr. Latimer”, he said, “and whilst I appreciate that lying is an essential part of your trade, I do urge you to be honest with us. I know or can guess what happened with the cameos, but I need you to confirm certain aspects of the case. Now, first, who was the government agent that you sent to spy on Father Calocerus?”

“I assure you, we sent no-one”, the man declared roundly.

“Then we are wasting our time”, Sherlock said. “Doctor?”

I rose with him to go, but Mr Latimer sighed heavily and bade us sit down again. He looked cross, but resigned.

“His name was Gianni Bianci”, he said. “One of our most trusted operatives. Except that I very much fear that he has killed Father Calocerus and taken the cameos for himself. Sold to a private buyer, they would set him up for life anywhere in the world. He was based in a small hotel near the property, and he checked out on the day that they disappeared. He has not been seen since.”

“I need a physical description of him, if you please”, Sherlock said.

“Forty-two, slim build, above average height and blond hair”, Mr. Latimer said. “He was of course extremely fit for his age, and had unusual light green eyes. He wore glasses, though he only needed them for reading.”

“What did you think of him?” Sherlock asked.

“I did not meet him”, Mr. Latimer said, sounding rather cross at that fact. “This was a government case; I was merely brought in to clear up the mess, whereon they provided me with the descriptions.”

“And Father Calocerus?” Sherlock asked,

“Thirty-nine, slim to medium build, average height and no tonsure”, Mr. Latimer said. “He had fair hair, quite a good head of it considering that his brother is totally bald. I do not know the Father's eye colour off-hand, but it would be on file if you required it.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“How did you know that the brother is bald?” he asked.

“He came up and identified the body”, Mr. Latimer said. “I did not meet him as he is a priest down in Rome and had to head straight back, but they told me that he had a dome as round and shiny as St. Peter's. The two do not get on; Father Calocerus had apparently made all his own funeral arrangements and left all his worldly goods, such as they were, to the Church.”

“That is what I expected”, Sherlock said, to the man's evident mystification. “What about the couple's nephew, who just happened to be visiting?”

“Twenty-one, average height, portly, and styles his hair in tight curls”, the man said, curling his lip in disdain. “And perfumes it! Plus he has an attempt at something which, I believe, he considers to be a moustache. The young nowadays!”

I smiled at his words. Sherlock thought for a moment.

“I have a request to make of you that is a little unusual”, he said. “I would like my friend the doctor to examine the body.”

“To what end?” I asked at once.

He smiled and shook his head.

“If I told you that, Watson”, he said, “it would totally defeat the purpose of the exercise.”

I do not know who was the more confused at that point, Mr. Latimer or myself. Probably myself, as per usual.

Was that a nod?

+~+~+

I spent a solid half hour examining the late Father Calocerus. He had been in good physical condition at the time of his death, and I could find nothing the least bit out of the ordinary, which annoyed me greatly. I was clearly missing some vital clue, and letting Sherlock down. I wrote up my notes, then went off to join my friend at a small restaurant in the town. 

“Did you find anything unusual in your examination?” he asked.

“Not really”, I said. “He was killed with a sharp dagger – Mr. Latimer told me that, of course – but that apart, nothing.”

“Was he overweight or underweight?” Sherlock asked, mystifying me even further. 

“He was of slim build, as Mr. Latimer said, but his body weight was what I would have expected for a man of his age.”

“You found exactly what I hoped that you would find”, Sherlock praised, “Well done.”

I preened, though I still had no idea as to what I had or had not done that was so great.

+~+~+

We returned to our hotel, and Sherlock refused to tell his brother what he knew until we had had dinner (I may just possibly have enjoyed the look on Gaylord Holmes' face more than I should have done). Later, we adjourned to a small private room, where Sherlock's brother and Mr. Latimer were waiting, both somewhat impatiently. My friend sat down opposite them both and I sat next to him.

“I am afraid that I do not have good news for you”, Sherlock said bluntly. “Without doubt, the Magnificent Seven cameos are currently in the possession of His Holiness the Pope, and I very much doubt that the Italian government will ever see hide nor hair of them.”

“How can you know that?” Gaylord demanded.

“I not only know it, I can prove it”, Sherlock said firmly. “Let us relate the sequence of events as they actually happened, from the point of view of the man who took them.”

“Gianni Bianci”, Mr Latimer said scornfully.

“No”, Sherlock said. “Father Calocerus.”

We all stared at him in shock.

“But he is dead!” I objected.

“The man you examined earlier is, I can tell you, Gianni Bianci”, Sherlock said. “Two things at least show this. First, we know that the real Father Calocerus was a hermit, who relied on the charity of others for his food supply. Such people are never overfed and indeed, often undernourished, yet this man, despite being of slim build, was clearly getting enough food to sustain him. Clearly therefore, the man that you examined was not a hermit.”

I stared in shocked silence. Gaylord narrowed his eyes at me; Sherlock was sitting a little closer than was socially acceptable in polite circles. But I was not going to move away, so I stared right back at him.

“The second thing relates to what really happened that day”, Sherlock said. “Father Calocerus is a loyal Catholic, and he knows that, very soon, the house and the cameos will be seized by the Italian government. He cannot save the house, but the cameos, which are worth infinitely more, are another matter. In a small case, they can easily be concealed in a priest's robes.”

“He is fully aware that the couple's unpleasant nephew has financial difficulties, so he plants the empty case under the man's bed, hoping to divert suspicion. People forget that hermits, like servants, have a lot of time to observe the world around them. He calculates that the Italian government has an agent watching the house, although he does not at first know who that person is. However, he knows full well that, if someone leaves the house in the days before the seizure happens - especially if they happen to be carrying a small box - then the agent will most likely follow them.”

“He is fortunate. The agent, Gianni Bianci, bursts into his compartment just as the train is about to leave. I asked at the station, and they told me that it was a local train, a non-corridor one. The priest knows that they are similar enough in appearance and build for him to take advantage of that fact. The agent does not suspect that the middle-aged priest would carry a weapon, and it is over in an instant.”

We all stared at him in shock. A killer priest?

“Father Calocerus now moves fast. The only slight setback to his hasty plan is that his ring, by which the dead man will be identified, will not fit on the man's fingers. He also only has time to don the man's clothes and leave his own clothes beside him, with the ring in his pocket....”

“Why the hurry?” his brother demanded.

“Because he wished to pull the emergency cord and stop the train as soon as possible”, Sherlock told him. “The body had to be found in the town, otherwise attention might start to focus elsewhere, possibly even down to Rome. There is of course easy proof of this theory; should you, Mr. Latimer, try to place that ring on the finger of the man that you have in your mortuary – a man you have not seen because an obliging brother identified him for you – then you will find that it does not fit. Or you could summon from Rome someone who knows the agent by sight, and they will confirm this.”

"But the brother?" Mr. Latimer objected.

“I am coming to that", Sherlock said patiently. "Father Calocerus is able to pull the emergency lever and stop the train before it is out of the city. In the chaos that follows, it is relatively easy to slip away unnoticed. On leaving the train, he immediately goes to a barber's shop and has his head shaved off – he must have mentioned to someone in the case that his brother was bald, so that was necessary – and then 'identifies' the man he has just killed as himself. He then catches a later train to Rome, where he visits the Holy Father and hands over his prize.”

It sounded incredible, yet we all knew there was no other way that it could have happened. The diplomat stared at him, clearly aghast.

“So the cameos are lost”, Mr. Latimer said bitterly. “My superiors will not be pleased.”

“In fairness, you did everything you could to obtain them”, Sherlock said. “I do not think that they can blame you. And I am sure that, many years from now and after the papal situation is finally resolved, some mysterious private buyer will donate a set of coloured cameos to the Vatican in their will.”

+~+~+

Mr. Latimer left us to report the probable failure of his mission, and we returned to our hotel for the night, mercifully minus Sherlock's annoying brother who was still looking suspiciously at us. Also annoying was the fact that, for some reason, we had to change rooms, although our new rooms were actually a little larger and quite pleasant. I slept like a log, with the man I loved wrapped around me.

We had ordered an early breakfast the following morning so that we could catch the morning train to continue our journey Lord alone knew to where (although I had some hopes for Venice). I was surprised, halfway through, to hear what sounded like gunfire coming from somewhere nearby. I looked at my friend in alarm.

“Not to worry”, he said through a mouthful of bacon which, mercifully, he finished before continuing. “Someone decided to play a joke on the new occupants of the Belmont Suite, and it seems that they did not exhibit much of a sense of humour.

I frowned.

“That was our suite until yesterday”, I observed. He nodded.

“I know”, he said. “And I told the hotel clerk to tell Gaylord that it still was.”

There was an anguished yell from nearby, and another shot. I grinned.

“Someone has learnt a useful life lesson”, Sherlock said sententiously.

I liked him even more!

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Sherlock, of course, turned out to be right on all counts. The Vatican City, the smallest state in the world, was created for the Pope under the Lateran Treaty many years later, 1929 to be exact. Just three months later, the Magnificent Seven resurfaced, having been anonymously gifted to the Pope to celebrate his new earthly realm. And my friend very generously paid for his brother's time in a Padua hospital, where he had several pellets extracted from his backside for having disturbed a champion shooter and his wife who were enjoying a free night in a hotel in town.

+~+~+

Next time, an encounter with vampires.... and blood will out.


End file.
